The Black Swan

by Day Taylor

  "Fellie, don't be a fool! They're on their way to New Orleans! You can't find them! Besides, you can't stay in the South! You'd be taken right back to Mossrose. And if Spig Hurd sees you' he'll shoot you!"

  "Yas'm, me 'n' Ester knows dat. Ah knows Ah gots to lay low 'til Ah fin's mah boys agin. But Ah gots to fin' 'em. Ah got a whippin' on account Ah wants'mah chil-luns, an' Ah still ain' change mah min'."

  Dulcie thought. "Would you go North if I try to get the boys back?"

  Fellie shook his head sadly. "Miss Dulcie, you jes' 'bout de bestes' lady in de worl', 'cept you cain' get mah boys fo' me. You take too many chances fo' me an' mine a'ready. Ah gots to fin' mah boys mahseff."

  "What are you goin' to do? How will you ever—" Dulcie began, when a cheerful voice, only a few feet away, made her jump.

  "Miss, is there somethin' I can help you with?"

  She looked up at a well-built man in his twenties, with a pleasant smile and blond hair that fell in a wave over his forehead. She had time to notice the blue work clothes, with his sleeves rolled up to show a tattooed anchor within a heart on his right forearm. She took a breath and rallied her thoughts. "Are you from the ship?" She pointed.

  "Yes, ma'am, the Ullah. Your man said you wanted to see the captain."

  "Are you the captain? You don't look like one."

  The blond man stood with his thumbs tucked into his belt and his fingers pointing downward, his legs a little apart, his tight-fitting dungarees outlining him boldly. He was still smiling. "Yes, ma'am, I'm a captain. We've got three captains onboard the Ullah. We just don't happen to have three ships yet." He seemed to think it a very fine joke.

  Dulcie smiled uncertainly. "Then who . . . which?"

  "I'm Ben West, Miss, serving temporarily as first mate. Looks as if you've got some trouble.**

  "No trouble at all—Captain West." She made an ineffectual gesture to smooth her hair. "I just ... I want passage for these people. They . . . my father freed them, and they're goin' to Philadelphia to ... to my uncle— Oliver Raymer. He . . . he'll help them get work." She scanned the streets for familiar and therefore threatening faces as she talked.

  "Do they have papers, Miss?"

  "Oh, yes! Ester, show him yours."

  Ben West looked at the emancipation paper and knew immediately it was invalid. But that was the least worrisome aspect. Poorly forged, Jem Moran's signature stood out boldly. Ben's eyes narrowed. The Ullah's hold was filled with Mossrose cotton. What game was this girl playing bringing fugitives supposedly freed by Moran to the ship that carried his cotton as cargo? "Who are you?" he asked brusquely.

  Dulcie stepped back, her voice all but inaudible. "Who am I? My name? Why . . . why must you know my—?"

  "Look, Miss, you'd better see the captain right now!*' He took her arm, pulling her roughly along.

  Dulcie staggered, her knees weak with fright. "Oh, please. I'll go somewhere else. Please. Let me go. Don't teU—**

  Ben glowered at her, not impressed by the deathly pallor of her face or her wide, frightened eyes. "Who are you, anyway?"

  "D-Dulcie Moran. Jem Moran's my daddy. I-I live at Mossrose! Please! I haven't done anythin' wrong!" She choked; frightened, hiccuping tears burst forth.

  Ben's jaws dropped. "Oh, God! You're his daughter?" He rapped sharply on the captain's cabin door, then pushed it open, and stepped inside, pulling hard on Dul-cie's arm, jerking her beside him. Nonplussed, he said, "We got a bundle o' trouble, Adam. She . . . she claims to be Jem Moran's daughter. Got a wagon full of fugitives and . . . and damn! emancipation papers with Moran's signature forged on 'em. What do you want me to do with her?"

  Adam's eyes never left Dulcie. He listened to Ben with only half an ear.

  Dulcie was faint with fright. She stared with hypnotized terror at the man she had met at Mossrose the day of her birthday party—her father's business associate. She was too frightened to move or even cry. The tears wouldn't fall. In her ears pounded an unhealthy roar. She couldn't hear what Ben was saying or what the big dark-visaged man replied as his black eyebrows knit together in a forbidding frown.

  The next she knew Ben West was gone. She was alone in the small captain's cabin, the door shut, the smell of resin strong, the walls dark with ancient paneling. The captain, judgmental, scowling was waiting for her to drink from the snifter he pressed to her lips.

  "Drink it," he commanded.

  Obediently Dulcie sipped it, breathed the brandy down her windpipe, and choked.

  He swore under his breath, jerked her hands high over her head, and roughly patted her back. Her eyes were watering, and she couldn't speak. She trembled all over.

  "Are you all right now?" he asked, his voice still rough and demanding.

  "What are you goin' to do to me?"

  He sat down at his desk, evaluating her across its expanse. "Why did you choose this ship to bring your fugitives, Miss Moran?"

  "Can't you just let me go?"

  His eyes narrowed, the blue growing darker and harder. He watched her for what seemed to Dulcie hours. Then he leaned back, his expression bland. "As you wish. Miss Moran. You are free to go."

  Dulcie was immobile for a few moments as the import of his words sunk in. Then she stood up shakily, taking an uncertain step toward the door. "I can leave? You won't stop me?"

  "Be certain you take your darkies with you."

  She felt as if he had hit her. In her own cringing fear, she'd forgotten Fellie and the others. If she ran now to save herself from Jem's anger, Fellie would die as an example to other slaves. "But I ... I have papers. Couldn't you—"

  "You might also inform your father I don't like being tested in so callow a fashion."

  Dulcie's head swam. Nothing made sense. "Captain .. . ?"

  "Tremain," he said curtly.

  "Why should my father test you, Captain Tremain?'*

  "Why indeed? Suppose you tell me."

  Slowly the truth began to form. Dulcie returned to her chair, still frightened, but bolder, determined. "You would have taken Fellie if my name hadn't been Moran, wouldn't you?" she said in amazement. "You do take runaways North! It's my father, his cotton. Captain! I can tell on you!"

  "What will you tell, Miss Moran? That I refused to take some fugitives North for you?"

  As quickly defeated as she had been hopeful, Dulcie slumped forward, her hands covering her face, bitter sobs tearing from her. "I only wanted to help Fellie. Why did I have to choose this ship?"

  Adam watched her, outwardly dispassionate. He knew her only to be an imp and a hellion, quite capable of acting as her father's agent to trap him into an admission of hauling slaves. But he didn't know if she were actress enough to put on the heartbroken display that followed as she bawled out the story of how she came to be at his ship with ten of her father's best Negroes.

  To trust her he'd have to risk everything—his career, his ship, his freedom. Yet, if she told the truth, she had also risked everything to bring these slaves to him. According to Dulcie, Fellie would hang for threatening the life of a white man.

  Reason told him to get her off his ship as fast as he could, protect his contract with Jem Moran, and thus assure that the planters would never suspect he hauled runaways North. Other men had been tricked into an admission of guilt by ruses such as this.

  And yet—he believed her. Instinctively he was drawn to her, trusted her, believed her fantastic, unbelievable story. His eyes moved slowly over her. He saw a grubby-

  looking girl with wild roan-red curls and an aristocratic beauty in spite of her unfashionable tan. Her riding jacket had fallen open, and he glimpsed the full breasts under her white shirt, her tiny waist. He looked away, angry that this girl, nowhere near being a woman, could make him consider throwing caution and reason away. And for what? Some mad, naive scheme to free an incorrigible darky who didn't even want to go North. Yet he was! He was considering it. No, more—he wanted to take her Negroes North. "Wait here, Miss Moran."

  He locked her in the
cabin, then went to the rail. "Mis-tah LeClerc! Bring the man Fellie up here!"

  As Fellie approached him, Adam could see the man struggling to walk proud despite his pain. "Yassuh."

  "Miss Moran tells me you've made free and now have changed your mind.'*

  "Ah ain't changed mah min', but Ah gotta fin' mah boys fust, or Ah gwine die tryin'."

  Adam played with the tip of his moustache. In his gut he knew Fellie meant every word he spoke. The man's pain, his love for his children were strong, filling the air around them. "Well, Fellie," he said, considering, "what will happen to the rest of your family if you go hunting for your boys and get killed?"

  Fellie lowered his head. "Ah doan know, suh. But Ah gotta do it."

  Dulcie sat quietly waiting. She was beyond crying, beyond fear. She knew he'd locked her in. She'd tried the door. She supposed he'd sent for the authorities—or perhaps Jem. She closed her eyes. Did they imprison women for stealing slaves? Hang them? Tar and feather them? She'd heard of such things.

  Finally the key turned in the lock. Adam came in looking as forbidding as when he left. His face was stem. How could she have imagined wanting to be kissed by him? He was a terrifying monster of a man. Just being in the same room with him made her shiver, unable to think or breathe.

  He paced the narrow cabin, his trouser leg brushing the hem of her riding habit with each passage. She tucked her feet closer to the chair. Her knees trembled as cloth brushed against cloth with his next passage.

  Hands clasped behind his back, he spun to face her. "Miss Moran, shall we suppose that I agree to take your people North, what exactly do you intend to tell your father?"

  Dulcie looked up hopefully, but the light in her eyes died quickly. She gestured helplessly. "I ... I have the money for passage. I ... I thought all I'd have to do was pay you and—but now I know you won't take them. I didn't know—" She swallowed hard, her throat was dry and hot.

  Adam raised an eyebrow, his smile mocking. "You didn't know it is illegal to steal slaves? Come, now, Miss Moran, there isn't a Southerner over the age of five who doesn't know that."

  Mutely, she nodded. "But I had the papers. I thought they'd be enough."

  "An act of the legislature is required to free slaves in Georgia."

  Dulcie gaped at him, then hid her face.

  He kept questioning her, pressing harder and harder. He no longer knew why he put her through this. The slaves were already aboard. He was already incriminated. He'd already promised Fcllie he'd find Ruel and Jothan and bring them to New York. But still he quizzed and tormented this girl, half wondering if his resentment didn't stem from her innocent power to make him feel reckless and wild, capable of performing any feat of heroism. It was the most stupid, irresponsible thing he'd ever thought! she saw on his face. Then she began to realize what he woodenly at his desk, waiting for him to turn her over to the authorities.

  "We cast off in fifteen minutes, Miss Moran.'*

  She nodded dumbly. What did that mean?

  "Your people are secreted aboard." He tossed the statement at her, his blue entrancing eyes studying her for the smallest reaction.

  But she was beyond reaction, resigned to Jem's wrath, the penalty of the law.

  He gestured, his long tanned fingers spread wide, a scornful smile on his lips. "It is your move. Miss Moran. The fugitives are aboard the Ullah. What will you do now?"

  Dulcie stared at him, bewildered at the uncertainty she saw on his face. Then she began to realize what he

  was saying. Her golden eyes came alive, sparkling, joyful. She smiled tentatively, then broadly, her hands prayerlike at her lips. "You'll take them? You'll take them!"

  It was like seeing the sun come out after the rain, Adam thought, as he watched the transformation in Dulcie. She was radiant. She glowed. Affected, he stood up, smiling now too. He put his hand out, and she grasped it with her tiny warm hand. Both of them started at the touch of the other's flesh. Blushing, she primly retracted her hand.

  Adam cleared his throat. "I'll have Mr. LeClerc see you ashore. We, uh, we sail in minutes."

  Dulcie could hardly breathe. It was relief and gratitude, she knew, but she was terribly conscious of this formidible, handsome man. She forced herself to meet his eyes without blushing again and suppressed the tremulous, nervous giggle that wanted to force its way through her lips. "Thank you—oh, it's not enough! How can I ever thank you for what you're doin' for Fellie?"

  He looked almost embarrassed. "You'll be safe going home? You have an escort?"

  "Oh, yes! I got here, didn't I?"

  Adam nodded curtly and led her to Beau. "See her ashore, Mr. LeClerc." Quickly he turned, disappearing down a companionway.

  Gentle and comforting. Beau talked easily with Dulcie, walking her to her wagon leisurely, as though he had all the time in the world.

  The deep-throated bellow of the UUah's whistle sounded. Beau grinned, giving her a quick salute. He ran for the ship. Precariously balanced on the rising gangplank, he waved to her over his shoulder.

  As Dulcie climbed lithely onto the wagon beside Claudine, Adam watched from the bridge. The Ullah steamed slowly away from the pier. He squinted, then grabbed his telescope. "Beau!"

  Beau walked jauntily to his side. "That's some girl, isn't she!"

  "Is that little black boy all the protection she has going back?"

  Beau laughed. "Better check your spyglass, captain, sir. That little black boy is the cutest little tiny black girl I ever saw wearing britches."

  "Reverse the engines!"

  "What? Beg pardon?"

  "Reverse the God-damned engines! Now, Mistah Le-Clerc!" Adam bolted down the companionway. The crewmen gaped in alarm as the captain raced down the deck, waiting in wrathful impatience for the Ullah to back into her slip. He jumped to the wharf before the gangplank was half down.

  Adam ran along the waterfront, racing up the steep, curving road to Bay Street. Carriages and wagons moved in steady confusion. But Dulcie was gone. God, he hoped she was safe. Dulcie Moran might have reached the Ullah all right, but he doubted her audacity would withstand Moran's fury.

  His steps were heavy as he returned to the Ullah. He berated himself for not having realized from the start he should have taken her home himself. Even with a horse, which he didn't have, he*d be hard-pressed to catch her now. Nevertheless, he considered going to the livery stables. But the Ullah stood at anchor. The slaves— Fellie and the others—^waited. Still reluctant, he boarded the ship. "Cast off, Mr. West," he said lifelessly. What would Jem Moran do to her?

  Chapter Five

  As Dulcie made her way toward Savannah with her wagonload of slaves, the first light of dawn crept across the sky over Mossrose. Neither the owner nor the overseer of the plantation was prepared to face the day. Wolf woke with the ringing of the plantation bell. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, unerringly placing his foot on the empty whiskey bottle. The cold contact of the glass against his warm bare foot brought back both the memory of the needed sleep it hadn't given him enough of and the thundering headache it had given him in abundance.

  Groggily, his head throbbing and his stomach rebelling, he peered down the narrow alley of the slave quarters. The blacks were already heading for the fields. He didn't see his drivers, but they were nearby. They knew him well enough not to dare anjrthing else. Strict discipline was critical; he'd spent years trying to convince Jem. It

  allowed a man freedom to take a day in his bed. With the punishment of Fellie, Wolf was confident that finally his boss realized what came of coddling slaves.

  His stomach heaved with the need to relieve itself of its sour burden. Wolf groaned and lay back, waiting for the nausea to pass. He was asleep before the last of the slaves were in the fields.

  Jem was in no better shape than his overseer, but in far worse frame of mind. He wasn't pleased with anything. Patricia had been angry with him before but never the way she was this time. Her trip to the Saunderses had been planned in advance of
the incident with Fellie, but he also knew that Patricia had wanted to go. She was glad to be away from Mossrose and from him.

  While Jem was a strong-minded man, he was not at all strong when it came to the disapproval of his wife or daughter, and at the moment he had the disapproval of both. Often Jem was pleased to note that Dulcie had a great deal of his blood running in her veins, but when he was in the wrong, as he felt he was now, it was like having two consciences. Hadn't he castigated himself enough for what had happened to Fellie? It could not have been helped. Fellie had to be punished, or Spig Hurd would certainly have killed him. Not only was Fellie a valuable slave that he didn't want to see strung from a tree or shot, but, Jem admitted, if only to himself, he had allowed himself to become too fond of Fellie, too lenient— and that small sin had been returned to Jem tenfold

  And Fellie had not really been provoked. It was one thing for a white man to mourn the loss of his sons, but Fellie's boys were not exactly his sons, they were his get, bred for purpose. Jem consoled himself with the thought that Fellie, being but half human, would soon forget. It was just Jem's bad luck that these particular boys had to be sired by the humanest slave he happened to own. Why couldn*t Patricia and Dulcie see he'd done only what had to be done? He hadn't wanted to whip his best nigger, and he hadn't liked it

  Feeling sorry for himself, Jem rolled over in bed, convinced he'd never felt so poorly in all his life. He envisioned Patricia's return later in the morning. Perhaps if she saw the miseries he'd put himself through, she'd understand.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  It was nine o'clock when Wolf finally roused. He dressed quickly, his head still hurting, his stomach in too much of a turmoil to consider food. He felt mean. It would pleasure him to lash those black bastards into line. Ten years he'd waited for Moran to give him free use of his whip arm. Now he meant to demonstrate its value.

  It was an overcast day, one of those when a man can feel the pressure building up, tightening all around him. No wonder his head throbbed. The stable boy saw Wolf coming and had his horse ready. Wolf smiled. Already the flogging of Fellie was showing results. Never had this particular boy shown such alacrity.